


In the Shadow of the Valley of Death

by Teese



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, M/M, Maniggy - Freeform, Self-Destruction, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-02-26 06:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: In the aftermath of Columbine, Marilyn Manson finds that his career has taken a beating. He has been scapegoated by the media and, as a result, has shied away from the limelight. When their new album has been released, he finds that he can no longer hide, and despite what everyone says about his safety, he is determined to stand up for himself and his fans. But with so much hatred lurking underneath the surface, how long will it take before tragedy strikes?Twiggy watches from the sideline, and for all that he feels utterly powerless, he is also the glue that keeps all the pieces together. However, Twiggy finds that his strength has its limitations. If he fails, what will keep them from falling apart?





	1. Before the Flies

**Author's Note:**

> So, for obvious reasons I have been going back and forth about whether or not I should post this, but seeing that I wrote this a long time before any of the accusations, and because fictional stories are in fact fictional, I have decided to publish the story. I'm sorry if anyone feels offended, but if you do feel offended, please do not read. 
> 
> I have no knowledge of what happened between Twiggy and Jessicka, but I realize that whatever went on, it was far from good. I also realize that no one but the people in question can have any actual knowledge of what went on. Either way, this story is just a story and I obviously do not support domestic violence. 
> 
> With that said, I wrote this some time ago. It's a pity to just let it rot, so here it is :) 
> 
> Comments are always hugely appreciated

It was a quiet afternoon and a gentle breeze travelled through the City of Angels. Brian Hugh Warner sat by the rounded swimming pool outside his sumptuous mansion in the Hollywood Hills. It was quiet – about as quiet as it could get in a crowded neighborhood by a busy road – and he read a book, “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”, for the thousandth time. A parasol shaded his pale skin from the light, and a drink sat on the low table next to the easy chair. He did not wear any makeup and his hair was pulled back in a tight knot, quite different from the stage persona – Marilyn Manson – and perhaps unrecognizable even to his most faithful adherents. 

A pair of high heels went click-clap down the stairs from the residence. His mother, Barbara Warner, walked leisurely toward him on the wooden deck. A peachy smile clung to her lips, glad to be spending some quality time with her only child. 

“Brian, dear?” she said in a motherly tone of voice, filled with warmth and affection. The rockstar, who wore a slight frown on his face, looked up from his book and said, “Yes, Mom?”

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” she told him, still smiling from one ear to the other, and then tapped her forefinger against the screen of her wristwatch. “Mark my words – ten minutes,” she repeated. Her son was a great many things; however, he was not the sort of man who was always punctual, a fact she had learned the hard way. 

“Yeah, ten minutes,” he echoed. “I get it.” 

“Oh, you’ll forget it,” she said, shaking her head in a resigned manner. “Why don’t you change into something more decent right away? It’ll take you ten minutes.”

The grown man redirected his attention to the book and offered her a compliant smile, all the while suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at the nagging. “I don’t need to change into ‘something decent’ – it’ll just be you and me anyways.” 

“Come on, dear.” Again, she tapped the screen of her wristwatch. “Jeordie just called, he’ll be joining us.” 

Brian’s eyes shot up from the book, though her expression revealed nothing. When she failed to provide him with an explanation for the unexpected dinner guest, he narrowed his eyes at her, and in a flat tone of voice, he asked, “What, he just called and invited himself?”

“No, I called and invited him,” she informed him, and while she folded her arms over her chest, her eyes gleamed mirthfully. Her son, the perfect picture of an introverted artist, looked thoroughly miserable, though he had lived in total isolation for the entire summer. “I won’t see you again until Christmas, and Jeordie will fly off to Florida to visit his family for the holidays.” She paused for a minute. “It’s only appropriate, Brian. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.” 

The young man heaved a sigh, somewhat irritated by the fact that she had not asked him first, but then he held his hands up in surrender and said, “Fine, fine. I’ll put on something decent.”

Barbara smiled, satisfied with the response. “Good,” she said. “And remember-”

“Yes – ten minutes, Mom.” 

She nodded. “Indeed, so you haven’t got forever to doll up. Better get moving.” With that, the high heeled shoes click-clapped back up the stairs. Brian inwardly huffed, painfully aware that she would never stop doting on him, constantly coddling him as though he were a sickly degenerate.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, putting the book down. 

Leaving both Friedrich Nietzsche and the drink behind, he swiftly walked to the master bedroom, which was the only bedroom of decent size adjoined with a bathroom and a walk-in closet. In addition to the walk-in closet, one of the remaining eight bedrooms functioned as a storage room. Over the last decade, his collection of costumes, wigs, and stage props had grown out of control, and due to the sheer amount, he had been forced to sell and gift items to private collectors or museums. Even with the great mansion, he felt as though space, or the lack thereof, was a pressing issue. 

The raven-haired man stepped before the mirror. He pulled down his bathing shorts and watched himself with great interest, studying the visible ribcage that jutted out like the rafters of an old barn; the thin arms that were nearly skeletal; and the razor sharp jawline that was easy on the eye. The upcoming tour, the “Guns, God & Government Tour”, was only weeks away, and he would have to sport leather, nylons and G-strings. He liked to think that he had lost the weight to appear sicklier, thus more sinister, however, being Marilyn Manson, he was perhaps too proud to admit his own shallowness. He, the face of ugly, could not be self-conscious; he could only be abhorrent.

Brian, caught up in the teeming thoughts, proceeded to put on a slightly oversized purple shirt and loose-fitting black pants. He gave himself a quick once-over, scrutinizing the outfit he had chosen for himself, but when he realized that he looked like a lanky scarecrow, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a black piece of clothing. He was about to unbutton his shirt when the doorbell rang, crying out for his attention. 

The singer sighed, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. Over the last few weeks, he had promised himself to buy a new wardrobe for his new self, but it had sunk into oblivion. Planning and co-designing outfits for the tour had proved to be more important. In the end, time had been scarce.

As he walked toward the main door, the same skepticism became evident on his face. Jeordie, who spent all his spare time getting drunk or high, never dropped by on surprise visits, and if he did, it was never innocent. Yes, his mother may or may not have given him a call, but under normal circumstances, he never would have accepted such an invite. Something was up. 

Brian suddenly found himself standing in the entrance hall. Wrapping his fingers around the door handle, he hesitated. He felt both worried and self-conscious, and he took a deep breath, mustering up the will to be sociable. Upon opening the door, he lifted his brows in surprise. His friend, who had always been clean-shaven and feminine, stood on his doorstep with a dense beard on his narrow face. It made him resemble a mixture of Frank Zappa and a stereotypical Arabic sheik. He chose not to comment on it, or rather, he chose not to criticize it. 

“Come in, Twigs.”

Jeordie, being his usual self, grinned from one ear to the other and shouted enthusiastically, “Mazz!”, before looking him up and down. “Well, don’t you look like you came straight out of Auschwitz. Looks nice, apart from the pants.” He tugged at the waistband of Brian’s pants, causing him to shy away. “You’ll stumble when they slide down around your ankles.”

“Ha-ha.” 

“Seriously though, you were a lot rounder around the edges last time I saw you. You good?”

Brian detected the trace of a slur in Jeordie’s voice – a telltale sign – and then that unmistakable stale smell on his breath. He deduced that the younger man was not entirely sober. Although the observation came as no surprise, Brian could not repress his disgruntlement. He wondered whether his mother would recognize the smell or not, but he was swift to dismiss the thought. In spite of having been young in the 60s, she was oddly innocent when it came to addictive substances, with the unfortunate exception of anything sugary, much to Brian’s relief and despair. 

“Yes, fairly good,” Brian said, folding his arms over his chest. “I decided what the heck, maybe I should try out the ‘absinthe and little else diet’.” The corner of his mouth quirked up, humored by his own joke. “Not everyone is graced with your natural slimness, Twigs. Especially not when their mother is visiting. I’m pretty sure she puts sugar on top of sugar, and then some.” 

Jeordie chuckled at this. “And where is the fair lady, if I may ask?”

“Inside, in the kitchen. Where else would she be?” The singer snorted in amusement. “Couldn’t get her to relax for more than five minutes before she remembered something boring she had to do.” He rolled his eyes, and in spite of his annoyance, he broke into a smile. 

Jeordie laughed. He knew ‘Barb’ as a second mother, and he loved her many quirks and eccentric behaviors, perhaps even to a greater extent than Brian himself did. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked, and for a moment there, he pictured her on speed. It made for a laughable scene. 

“Jeez, Twigs, what are you laughing at?” Brian muttered, closing the door behind them. “And don’t give me that look – I smell it.” 

“What?” the bassist asked. “I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m completely innocent.” 

Brian hummed. “Yeah, you’re about as innocent as a Catholic priest.” 

“You’d know,” he commented with a cheeky smile on his face, and then his stomach produced a loud gurgling sound. He laughed, petting his stomach. “Man, I’m hungry!”

“Dinner’s probably ready-” 

“Mazz,” the bassist said, curling his fingers around the taller man’s elbow. “I’m hungry. Hungry…” he repeated, lingering on the last word and fixing him with a demanding look. 

“Twigs,” the raven-haired man grumbled, propping his hand on his hip. “Shut the hell up.” 

“Ok.”

“And be careful around Mom,” he cautioned, propping his hands on his hips. 

“Yes-yes-yes,” Jeordie agreed. “I promise. Pinky promise.” 

Upon hearing this, the singer’s expression hardened. His friend was about as high as a mountain peak. 

The two men walked up the stairs, and as they entered the kitchen, the sound of Barbara singing along to the radio hurt their ears. They took their seat around the large wooden table, and the bassist gawked at the interior of the stately mansion. Every piece of furniture was in a delicate, dark oak, and many of the doors had stained-glass pictures in luminous colors. It had been built in the early 1920s and had an elegant, festive atmosphere that complimented the singer. Although Houdini himself had never lived there, it was commonly known as “the Houdini Mansion”. The band had, however, lived there during the production of their most recent album, “Holy Wood”. Brian, hopelessly fond of all things old, had fallen in love, thus buying the house from the previous owners. 

Jeordie, having noticed Brian’s collection of antique dolls, struggled not to laugh. Brian shot him a mean look and said, “Don’t even think about it.” 

“… Mm.” He pressed his lips together, doing his best to conceal his amusement. “I’m not- I’m not laughing.” 

Brian put his fingers to his temples and rubbed vigorously in an attempt to remove the headache that had been building up over the last fifteen minutes. When the attempt failed, he leaned back in his chair and regarded the baroque painting that hung above Jeordie’s head. The rounded golden frame resembled a halo around his head, and for a split second, he reminded Brian of Jesus. Equally irksome too. 

“I don’t get how you can live here,” Jeordie said, but then he changed his mind. “Or, well, I guess the inside of your head looks a little bit like a curiosity shop – but.” He paused, pointing a finger at the human skeleton that guarded the doorway. “That’s kinda crazy. Even for you, that’s kind of crazy.” 

Brian shrugged. “I’m preserving him for posterity. He had syphilis.” 

“Oh, that figures.” Jeordie bit his lower lip. He then whispered, “Mazz?” 

“Hm?” 

“… Houdini’s ghost.” 

The singer wrinkled his forehead. Before he could come up with an appropriate response, Barbara shouted, “Boys! Dinner’s ready!” 

Soon, the smell of delicious food filled their nostrils. Jeordie felt his mouth watering at the prospect of sinking his teeth into a home cooked meal, something he had not one in ages. Being both single and far from home, he had no one to cook for him. As a consequence, he was painfully thin and never ate anything that was not canned. 

“Oh, hello, Jeordie,” Barbara said in a singsong voice, regarding their guest with glee in her eyes. “I’ve got a special treat for you, though Brian absolutely refuses to eat anything but salad and low-fat yogurt these days.” She then huffed, but smiled and winked at her son. His expression hovered between exasperation and weariness, unamused by Jeordie’s presence and uninterested in the meal. 

“I eat,” he argued. “In moderation. As one should.” 

“Well, if anything, I’m not picky, especially not when it comes to your cooking, Barb.” 

Brian snorted. “You’re not picky when it comes to eating fries off the sidewalk, Twigs.”

“Boys, boys…” the fifty-five-year-old woman scolded them light-heartedly and presented them with a delicious plate of lasagna each. She poured Jeordie his beer and then some red wine for her son and herself. Brian thanked her, and as she sat down, she muttered grace to herself. Neither of the men commented on it, simply pretending that they had not heard the hurried prayer. 

For about ten minutes, they ate in silence. Brian stopped eating after two minutes, and the majority of his portion was still untouched. When he failed to finish it, Jeordie raised one eyebrow at him and stole his plate, finishing it for him. 

“T’was really great, Barb,” Jeordie complimented her; she smiled sheepishly. 

“It’s just lasagna,” she answered quietly. “But thank you, Jeordie. I’m glad someone enjoys my cooking.” 

“Everyone likes your cooking, Mom.” 

“Why, thank you, dear.” 

Brian, less irritable now that he had eaten, smirked wryly when he felt Jeordie’s foot nudging his under the table. He kicked him playfully in the shin, drawing something of a yelp from the younger man. Barbara scolded them with her eyes, though a corner of her mouth lifted. She said nothing to reprimand them for their less than mature behavior. 

She put her knife and fork down, gently dabbing the corners of her moth with a napkin, and cleared her throat before asking, “Are you looking forward to the tour, Jeordie?”

“I guess,” he said and offered her a sad smile. “Or as much as any of us can, with all that happened last year. I mean…” He stopped himself midsentence and locked eyes with his friend. “I’m not the frontman-”

Brian cut him short. “It’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t worry.” He shot his best friend a dirty look. Jeordie averted his gaze, and Brian tried his best to come across as confident and unmoved; however, his anger was palpable. His mother had already suffered enough over the last year, seeing as the massacre had affected all their lives. Why Jeordie had chosen to broach the subject now, in the middle of a pleasant dinner, was beyond him. 

“See, he worries about you just as much as I do,” the older woman said, voice low and weary. “You’re a target up on that stage, in front of all those people. Even without the shooting! And now…” she faltered; tears shimmered in her eyes. “What if something happens?”

“Mom, even if that’s true, I can’t play dead.” Upon saying this, he looked her square in the eyes, determined to stand his ground. “I have a responsibility as a musician – as an artist – and as a spokesman for those who have nothing…” Taking in a deep breath, he said, “For kids like Harris and Klebold. If I roll around when they tell me to, what will I be to the public? To myself? 

A tearful Barbara put her hand on her son’s arm, though he shrugged her off. “Brian, you can’t-”

“No,” he said firmly. “I have to take that risk. I have to stand up against those sheep hiding behind their crosses and Bibles, telling themselves that I’m more influential than the president.”

“It’s not about all of that, Mazz,” Jeordie muttered, and Brian could feel the mental pout from his friend. He even sounded as though he had sobered up, most likely due to the severity of the topic. “It’s about you as you, not as you, the creator, or the artist, or none of those things.” 

Brian groaned at the sentiment. “And you propose what, exactly? That I lock myself inside of this house until I die of old age and boredom?” He shook his head, indignant that they would chain him to his couch to keep him safe. A thousand angry thoughts flickered through his mind, thoughts that wanted to become foul words, but he was clever enough to bury them. 

“You know what he means, dear. What we mean.”

“Please, Mom,” he muttered, sick and tired of the topic of conversation. Over the last few weeks and months, they had argued about the tour; about the dangers of being a public persona. The argumentation never ended, and he needed to draw a line. He said, “I’d go as far as to claim that the security measures we’re taking are about as severe as that of the president himself. No one will enter with as much as a beer bottle in their purse.” 

All three of them fell silent. As he chewed his food, mouth open, he stared at the singer with disbelief written all over his face, but even so, he did not call him out on his bluff. 

“I suppose you’re right, honey,” Barbara said, proving that she was in fact an indulgent mother. She then cleaned the table while humming, relatively content with what answers her son had given her. Jeordie looked utterly confused by her reaction, and he eyed his colleague suspiciously, nearly asking what drug he had laced her wine with. 

Brian thanked her for the delicious lasagna and then turned his attention back to his guest. He seemed more relaxed and even offered Jeordie a genuine smile. “Let’s go sit by the pool,” he said and gestured him towards the staircase. Jeordie, for all that he was confused, did not protest. 

 

The two men walked on to the deck and sat down under the cool shade of the parasol. Brian put on some extra sunscreen and offered the bottle to Jeordie, who declined. Unlike the rockstar, he managed to get a decent base tan without turning into a blistery tomato. The sun just gave him a golden tint, and while he usually maintained a pale complexion, he tanned easily during summer. 

“The world will stop spinning,” Jeordie said breathlessly, “if you die.” 

The abrupt statement knocked the wind from Brian’s lungs. He coughed into his hand, having nearly choked on his red wine. As he continued to hack and hawk, he had an interesting expression on his face, something of surprise, anger, and annoyance. Once he had gotten a moment recover his poise, he asked, “What are you talking about? What drugs did Pogo give you?”

Jeordie lowered his gaze. “The people you say you’re doing this for…” His voice was shaky with emotion, and he continued to stare at his hands, afraid that Brian’s glare would tear him apart. “Your fans, they’ll be in a lot of pain if something bad happens to you. You’re everything to them.” 

Brian snorted disbelievingly and finished his glass of wine, silently mourning the fact that he had forgotten to bring the bottle outside. He took a sip out of Jeordie’s beer instead, even if he did not enjoy the bitter taste of the beverage. If he were to withstand the argumentation at hand, he needed every drop of alcohol. 

“Everything and nothing, I suppose.”

“You lied to Barb though…” Jeordie continued, and he gave the singer a look of reproach, now daring to look him in the eyes. “Our security isn’t as good as you claimed – it isn’t ‘better than the president’s’.” He paused for thought, and Brian stole another swig of beer, well aware that he would soon lose his head. Patience was a virtue, and Brian was not a virtuous man. “The security budget is really low compared to, I dunno, Madonna or MJ – so you lied.” 

Brian gave him a long look. “I’m not Madonna, am I?”

The shorter man heaved a sigh. “That wasn’t the point,” he said, shaking his head. Without saying another word about it, he took a hair elastic from his wrist and tied his dreads in a loose ponytail, which flopped over his left shoulder. He looked less like Jesus and more like a hippie. 

“And what was the point?” 

“You’re not Madonna – you’re not the president,” he muttered as he ran one hand through the unkempt dreadlocks, probably wondering whether he should go see a hairdresser or not. “But some people think you’re the Antichrist. You declared that you would rip out pages of the Bible and encourage young people to do the same. You burn crosses. And you know what? Religious fanatics are the worst kind of fanatics there is. They can kill anyone for the sake of their holy God, and if they die, they still get to go to heaven…” he paused for a moment and locked eyes with the singer. “They’re Martyrs.” 

Brian’s expression was now caught between annoyance and amusement. “And if I die, what am I?” he inquired in a dry, witty tone of voice. 

“Gone.” Jeordie gave him a sad look. “Just gone.” 

Brian studied his best friend’s face, finding traces of fear and sorrow in his eyes. It rewarded the singer with a guilty conscience, a fact which infuriated him. 

“Should any of them wish to see me dead…” His face was calm, but the quiver in his words betrayed him. He drew in a shaky breath and said, “And go against the Ten Commandments while they’re at it, then that is exactly what they will do.” A pause. Brian licked his lips and turned his eyes heavenwards, searching for something indescribable. “You know that, right?”

The younger man’s warm brown eyes were glazed over and unfocused as he stared down at the wooden deck. A moment later, he swallowed thickly and said, “They’ll have to go through me first.” 

As soon as the declaration of loyalty had been uttered, he moved his gaze from the ground. Their eyes met, but Brian was swift to look away, afraid of what he might find. Then, as he grasped the meaning of Jeordie’s words, his mouth twitched with indignation. His dark eyes smoldered, and he felt a flare of anger in his chest, one that burst into flames. 

“No one could give less of a fuck about you, Twigs!” he snarled and jumped up from his seat, taking a few steps backwards. “You’re the joker – the mindless junkie who likes to suck my cock on stage. They won’t offer you as much as a thought. I mean, you provoke them, yes, but they see you as little but a brainwashed, poor soul.”

The younger man frowned, confused by the harsh and insensitive comment. He said nothing but started to tug at a loose thread on his sleeve. His lower lip quivered; Brian felt a sharp pang of guilt in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I meant nothing by it, Twigs.” 

The bassist’s mouth snapped into a tight, straight line, and he said, “Okay.” 

Brian sighed. “I meant nothing by it,” he repeated, perhaps mostly to himself, and Jeordie looked as though he had been slapped by an invisible hand. “But you have to understand…” he said and placed a caring hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “The responsibility falls on me. I’m the devil to them, and to be frank, I’m glad that it isn’t your burden to bear.” 

Jeordie rolled his shoulder, causing Brian’s hand to fall to his side. 

“Twigs,” the singer murmured. “I’m sorry. I just want you out of harm’s way.” 

“It’s alright.” 

The younger one smiled thinly and accepted the foulmouthed words. Brian looked ashamed, but he did not go to any further lengths to repair the damage. With a heavy heart, he came to the conclusion that Jeordie was used to being maltreated, especially at his hands. He had demons. Whenever he felt the teeth of stress dinking its teeth into his flesh, he would often throw temper tantrums. 

“You know…” he said in a soft tone of voice. “I think highly of you, Twigs. I love you as much as I am capable of loving another man, and I think of you as the – the sibling I never had while growing up.” He raked his fingers through his black hair. The bassist’s eyes were glued to his. “But I have to make these decisions, not you nor anyone else. Not my mother, not Pogo – none of you.”

Jeordie smiled wearily. “I know.”

“Don’t pout. It doesn’t suit you,” Brian commented, and his lips curved into a smile. 

“I’m gonna head back home now,” the shorter man declared, his lips set in a firm line. “If that’s fine by you.”

Brian nodded. “Of course.” 

When Jeordie turned around and disappeared out of sight, Brian felt empty. He knew he could be both rash and mean – he could be an asshole – and he knew he had spoken too freely. Jeordie was sensitive. The fact that he had stopped by to express his concerns was an act of fondness, and Brian had been angered by it. He had brushed it aside; he had brushed him aside. 

As he sat there under the glare of the sun, a white cat rubbed its head against his leg and meowed. 

“I know, Lily,” he said and scratched her ear. “I’m an asshole.”


	2. Love Your Guns, God and the Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tour begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) here's the second chapter, hope you like it
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)

The band was at the Orpheum Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. The structure itself was old and looked less than inviting from the outside, but the inside was a different story, filled with the glamour and richness of the 1920s. They could only marvel at the beauty of it, quite different from other concert halls that seemed more appropriate for them. There were only 2,600 seats and little room for chaos; however, in all the years they had performed before an audience, there had never been an uneventful night.

The five of them lounged in the backstage area, drinking beer and chitchatting, as had become their custom over the years. They all sat with their faces turned toward Brian. He was now Marilyn Manson. White and black makeup had transformed him into the creation that defined and dominated his career. Clad in ripped nylon stockings, sturdy platform boots, a tiny G-string, and a leather corset, he was as intimidating as he was breathtaking.

“How I wonder,” Madonna Wayne Gacy – better known as Pogo – thought out loud. The other men shot him suspicious glances. None of them could be bothered to pay much attention to the lunatic. John 5 did, however, respond after a moment of nothing.

“About what?” 

Pogo smiled a wicked smile in response. “You don’t suppose some ingenious bastard has brought a gun to perk things up?” 

“Shut up, Pogo. No one wants to hear your shit,” the frontman barked. The look on his face would have sent shivers down Barbara’s spine. The three others kept silent, well aware that Brian was on edge. His body language, which was usually more relaxed when they were on tour, was frozen and stiff. He kept tapping his fingers against his thighs, against armrests, and against the table. The restlessness nearly undid him. 

“Is the Antichrist scared?” The baldheaded man grinned hugely, immensely pleased with himself. Brian struck him, though without full strength and only as a warning. Pogo did not listen to warnings. “Should we change the set list and start with ‘Get Your Gunn’?” he asked instead.

Ginger Fish groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Pogo. Not today,” he muttered angrily, which made the lunatic giggle. “Go get high in a corner or something.”

Brian had an annoyed look on his face, but he said nothing further. The bassist eyed him suspiciously, knowing very well that Brian had blown up over less infuriating situations, especially where Pogo had been involved. He could tell that Brian was nervous, skimming through his book as though it was children’s literature and not Ayn Rand.

The sound of people streaming into the concert hall was as familiar as the tingling sensation in their limbs and tummies. Jeordie saw beads of sweat forming under the heavy makeup Brian was wearing, and he smiled caringly, if a little worriedly.

“They’re cheering for you, Mazz. D’you hear?” he pointed out not only to the frontman, but to every member of the band. Even Pogo remained silent as they listened to their adherents – ever faithful – and full of high hopes for the evening. Due to the massacre, Brian had exited the limelight and taken a break from himself; from the stage persona. Now the fans were hungry for more, and they called out for him, chanting his name as though it were an occult mantra.

 

* * *

 

They stood on the stage in complete darkness and listened to the chant of the audience as they pleaded for their idol to appear before them. His name was like a prayer, “Manson, Manson...”, over and over again.

They began to play ‘Irresponsible Hate Anthem’. The spotlights came on, red and horrible. They looked as if they were bathing in blood, and the audience begged for more. They begged for him.

Jeordie wore one of his usual dresses, black and beige, and boots that made him ten centimeters taller than his actual height. His makeup was black and white, much like the other three men up on the stage.

And then Brian walked on to the stage with the confidence of a Roman emperor. He looked grotesque and glorious at once, thin and tall and dressed in nothing but a corset, a G-string and torn stockings; and of course the platform boots. He was divine. Jeordie knew it – the audience knew it – and Brian himself knew it.

They ploughed through the set list. When they began to play ‘1996’, Brian was high on himself again and jumped around and communicated with the band. He was erratic. The lyrics fell from the tip of his tongue without effort, and the band were just as eager and just as great. Everything came together, and they ended the first concert of the tour perfectly.

The crowd applauded them. Brian kissed Jeordie full on the lips as they exited the stage, thoughtlessly and yet thoughtfully. Jeordie felt the press of large, colored lips against his own for several minutes after as they wrapped up and left the concert hall. Seeing his own reflection in one of the black windows on their way out, he saw that the red of Brian’s lipstick had rubbed off on his mouth. Had it not been for the white makeup, he would have been seen blushing like a strawberry on a warm summer’s day.

 

* * *

 

“He actually didn’t get shot,” Pogo announced with a manic grin on his face. John 5 rolled his eyes at the statement, clearly not in the mood for Pogo.

“No one would attempt to smuggle a weapon into such a place,” he muttered. “Too few people in the audience, too few distractions.”

“What about the next place-”

Jeordie cut him short before he could finish that sentence. “If you don’t shut up, I will give you bad drugs”, he threatened and gave him a reproachful look. Pogo snorted in response, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Aw, sticking up for your girlfriend, are you?” he teased and then laughed. Jeordie wanted to punch him in the stomach, but stopped when he felt Brian’s eyes on them. He was still on his high and just as uninterested in listening to Pogo as the three others. Even so, there was a mischievous, humored glint in his eyes. 

“If you don’t shut the fuck up Pogo, I will find a HIV positive hooker for you and force you to stick that slimy eel of yours into her cold, infected vagina.”

They all laughed at the witty comment, all of them glad that the show had gone so well, but none of them gladder than the frontman himself.

“Is anyone up for a night of partying?” Ginger asked once the laughter had died down.

“Count me in, cunt,” Pogo replied dryly, sounding as though he had accepted a challenge. The other three men looked a little puzzled at the suggestion, and John 5 shook his head.

“Are you actually insane? We have another gig tomorrow-” he began to say, but Pogo stopped him by putting his foul-smelling hand over his mouth. 

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down with excitement and then something else – something most likely drug induced.

Brian groaned and slapped the keyboardist over his bald head. “All of you better shut the fuck up on the bus tonight, I need sleep. So do all of you morons.”

Jeordie smirked. “Agreed.”

Pogo let out a loud whining noise. “Aw, but you’re so loud when you fuck!” he said, throwing his hands up in a dramatic gesture. Everyone, apart from Brian and Jeordie, laughed at the immature joke.

Ginger continued where Pogo had left the relay baton. “Did you see that adorable little kiss Manson gave him after-”

Brian slammed his fist into the table, causing all four men to jump. For a moment there, none of them said a single word, all of their eyes glued to the frontman. He looked intimidating.

“Yes, you all saw that,” he said silently, a little too silently perhaps. “You’ve also seen him performing oral sex on stage, so a quick peck on the lips couldn’t have mattered less. Do us all a favor and stop whining about it like some goody-goody Christian cunt, eh?” He smiled. 

The other men then laughed in response, but the message had gotten through, and no one said more about the matter, not even Pogo; however, the self-satisfied smirk on his face spoke louder than words. Had it not been for the fact that the evening had become a success, Brian would have beaten him into a bloody pulp. It happened every now and then.

Afterwards, they all decided to go to bed. It would be better to sleep through the five-hour drive than to drink themselves half to death, and while they all yearned to quench their thirst right then and there, they were all painfully aware of the abundance of time. In the end, they would be utterly exhausted, hung-over, and unable to as much as look at the bus without retching.  

On the bus, Jeordie and Brian shared a room with two small beds on each side on the upper level, while Pogo, Ginger Fish, and John 5 shared a room on the lower deck. After more than five years on the road, this had become a tradition set in stone, and if Ginger Fish and John 5 were unhappy about sleeping next to Pogo, none of them spoke a word of it.

When they had all brushed their teeth over the same sink, taken a dump in the same toilet and changed into their sleepwear, they crept under their blankets and closed their eyes. Jeordie was about to fall asleep when Brian spoke softly, “I’m still here.”

Jeordie yawned. “… One hundred and eight shows to go, Mazz,” he whispered, staring into the blackness of the night. When silence followed, he heaved a sigh and wished that Brian could understand – he wished that he could understand all the things he could not make him understand. For all that Brian was smart, he was also stupid, and for all that Jeordie could be simple-minded, he managed to see the full picture.   

“Are you scared, Twigs?” the older man eventually asked. Jeordie sighed, muttering “… Goodnight, Mazz”, and then rolled over. Both men stared into the wall for some time after. The question haunted them both, because of course they were scared. They would have been fools not to be scared. 

When Jeordie finally fell asleep, he dreamt that Brian stood on the stage with a giant hole blown through his torso. Fire consumed him.

 


	3. A Big-Rock-Star-Celebrated-Victim-Of-Your-Fame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is about to happen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) here's an update for you. I really loved writing this chapter. Some things worked out extremely well, if I may say so myself. 
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)

After nearly a month on the road, they finally had a day off in New York. To begin with, they had discussed the possibilities of enjoying a bibulous night out, but all of them were worn out and needed to rest. Even Pogo had no energy left for parties or hard drugs, and he had fallen asleep with his shoes on and with a bottle of beer in his hand. They had considered leaving him on the bus.

The hotel was splendid – quite modern and with spacious rooms – even if they shared. Brian and Jeordie shared a room, as was their custom, and the other three men shared a three-bedroom suite. Again, no one questioned the tradition; no one batted an eye.

“These beds are so fucking small,” Brian whined the moment he sat down on the narrow mattress. The bassist chuckled, too accustomed to his complaints, and he said, “we’re thin.” He then plopped down on the second bed and let out a sigh, pleased to find that the pillow was soft and the mattress comfortable. 

“Not my point,” the vocalist grumbled. “I just wanted some time to relax – to be comfy.”

“Well…” Jeordie said and scratched his chin. “D’you think the bus beds are any better?”

“Of course not, but we get to stay here for two full nights, Twigs.” Brian shook his head, got up from the bed and kicked the wall with his boot-clad foot. The pitiful display of anger made the bassist laugh; however, the glare he received from the singer silenced him. Brian, whose irritation normally died down within a split second, sighed and said, “My back is killing me from all the traveling.” 

“Are you sure it isn’t because of the corsets?” he asked, and there was a spark of amusement on his face, one that was impossible for Brian to miss. “I hear they can be painful.”

Brian shot him another dirty look but said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the minibar, grabbing a well-earned bottle of wine – one of those small bottles – and stepped in front of the large window that overlooked a park. As he gazed out, he swigged the wine in five gulps. He burped into his hand and sat down on the bed, his eyes still fixed on the view. The park was swarming with people of all ages, people who were either exercising or pushing strollers.  

While Brian was caught up with the bizarre everyday lives of strangers, the younger man switched on the television. He shuddered when he saw what the news reporter was speaking of, and he caught the words, “… Harris was a clinical psychopath,” before he switched over to another channel. He settled for a braindead Adam Sandler comedy.

“… Mazz?” he said quietly, but glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the singer was too absorbed in whatever went on in the park to notice. He smiled, glad that he had not heard the news reporter. It was likely that she would mention their band – they all did – and it would have angered him. It would have saddened him.

Brian, having had enough of the park and its dreary guests, sat down next to Jeordie on the couch. The bassist stopped paying attention to the movie. Brian, who usually carried with him an air of confidence, seemed downcast and uncertain. Jeordie pretended to look away, though his eyes continued to roll to the side, taking in the sight of him. He studied his face, unspoiled by makeup or lenses. His deep-set eyes were chocolate-colored, though with threads of gold and a black rim to emphasize his contemplative nature. Jeordie loved those eyes – he loved that face. He loved the plump lower lip and the sharply pronounced cupid’s bow. He loved the prominent cheek bones and the shoulder-length black hair that, in the light of day, shone with a bluish tint.  

And then Brian interrupted his chain of thought by asking, “Why haven’t you gone down on me?” His expression was grave and thoughtful, though he averted his gaze, perhaps afraid of the answer.

“… What?” 

Brian shrugged. “You do that a lot during our shows. Normally, you do.” 

Jeordie did not know how to respond appropriately to the abrasive question. Brian’s deep brown eyes peered at him, studying him intently, and Jeordie saw that his face was laced with worry.

“Why,” he mumbled, furrowing his brow, “does my employment contract state that I have to?” 

For a moment, the singer did nothing but stare at his friend, and then he burst into laughter. He laughed until his shoulders heaved up and down and he was gasping for air. Still thoroughly befuddled, Jeordie smiled an oddly thin smile, one that spoke louder than words. When Brian noticed, he became quiet and drew his lower lips between his teeth. His head tilted, only slightly, and he looked to the floor. A faint blush colored his cheeks.

“No,” the older man said, voice firm and somewhat distant. “I was just wondering if something’s…” He nibbled on his lower lip again. “If something’s changed.”

“I just haven’t felt like it,” the bassist whispered. A thick tension descended on them as their eyes locked, and the younger man cleared his throat and elaborated, “I haven’t been using as much this tour – I haven’t felt like it – and, well, maybe I’ve changed.” He paused and swallowed thickly, and for a split second, he felt tears in his eyes. But then he smiled in spite of himself and said, “Guess the old age is catching up with me, eh?” 

“Yeah, right,” Brian muttered. “Space ghost.”

Brian nudged his best friend playfully in the arm, and the corners of Jeordie’s lips turned up, forming a genuine smile.

“Mm,” he hummed and redirected his attention to the TV. “Those are the worst. Guess the scientologists agree – aren’t they the ones who are so hung up on ghosts?”

“… They’re called Thetans, I believe,” the singer pointed out, a flicker of amusement sparkling in his deep, brown eyes. “Not that it matters. It’s all bullshit – just like those Christian motherfuckers-”

“ _Man_ , this movie sucks,” Jeordie complained and switched channels again.

“It’s Adam Sandler, Twiggs.”

“… Still sucks.”

With a sigh, Brian reclined on the couch and stretched himself. Before long, however, he propped himself up with his elbows and shifted as though uncomfortable. Hesitating, he paused in an awkward position, and then he rested his head on Jeordie’s lap. The younger man started slightly in surprise; however, he did not protest. Being physically close was in itself unnerving, feeling the warm heat radiating from his being. Drawing in a sharp breath, he let his hand wander. He caressed Brian’s hair and cheek with trembling hands, careful and yet not. Brian’s eyes fluttered open; their eyes locked like magnets. Jeordie’s breath hitched.

“I’ve been terrified,” Brian admitted tentatively. “Every time… every time we’ve gone on stage. I’ve kept thinking ‘I may die any given moment’.” He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his emotions at bay. “And then – then I’ve looked at you. You…” Brian’s voice faltered and he stopped speaking, somewhat scared and reluctant to see where the conversation was taking them.

“… I what?”

Brian licked his lips and said, “You always smile when I look at you.” 

Jeordie felt his cheeks redden at the words. “I do,” he said lamely, more than a little lost, and he gazed out the window and felt a sharp pang of pain inside his chest. 

“You have nightmares,” the raven-haired man pointed out, and when Jeordie said nothing, he asked, “Did you know that?” He wrapped his hand around Jeordie’s slim wrist, feeling his now erratic pulse, and his eyes darkened. “Quite often too,” he added.

“I do?” 

“… Sometimes I can’t sleep,” Brian started, his hand still wrapped around Jeordie’s wrist. “I lie awake, and I look at you – when it isn’t fully dark. I see it on your face, and sometimes you move.” Another pause. “Sometimes you whimper.” 

Jeordie’s mouth went dry. “Then why don’t you wake me?” 

The older man gave him a meaningful look. “I heard my name,” he confessed, and then he wetted his lips and let go of Jeordie’s wrist. “On numerous occasions, actually… I was afraid…” He laughed, and the sound was foreign. It was mirthless and hollowed out. “Maybe you dreamt I was hurting you?”

“Now, that’s silly,” Jeordie reassured him. “Silly, silly man…” He shook his head. “No – I, eh, I dreamt – I dreamt that you died.” He flushed a brilliant scarlet, more than a little ashamed of himself. Telling Brian the truth about his nightmares, which were the same whether he was awake or asleep, spoke volumes about his feelings. “Onstage. I keep having that dream, almost every night.” 

Jeordie’s heart was beginning to beat at an uncontrollable rate. His hands were shaking, and his stomach felt as though it were churning and moving. He could not believe that he had finally spilled what had remained a secret for so long. As he dipped into the warm, brown eyes of his best friend, he felt a wave of panic, but Brian was neither angry nor upset. He brushed a thin dreadlock out of Jeordie’s face and smiled a sad little smile.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” he whispered, but the words sounded forced. “So we must be doing something right, don’t you think?”

Suddenly, he felt a few rough fingertips softly touch his arm. Jeordie’s eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, and while he would not cry, he could not keep his lower lip from twitching.

“You’re an idiot, Mazz,” he said, and the fingers danced across his pale skin, leaving gooseflesh as they wandered up his arm. He cupped his cheek with his hand and dipped into the deep wells that were his eyes. “I wish I could’ve fucking told you to stop it – to stop trying to be invincible – but I know I can’t. I can’t, Mazz.” Using the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped the tears from his eyes and sniffled. “Because you’re right. You can’t play dead. But I’m still worried – because you’re my – you’re my friend.” 

Brian shrugged the hand away and hoisted himself up from the couch. He stood with his back to the TV as he muttered, “Me too.” Then, without another word said, he walked to the bathroom and closed the door, turning the key and shutting him out. Jeordie, still dazed and confused, resumed to watching TV for the rest of the evening. Brian went to bed early. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day was a blur. They ate breakfast, put on their stage clothes and felt on edge. Outside, the rain beat the asphalt and dyed it black. People wore bright raincoats or held patterned umbrellas over their heads, running from one side of the street to the other. Inside, they heard the drops of water as they splashed against the roof, and while they chatted away as though all was fine and peachy, they all looked forward to the end of the tour. They all wanted to go back to LA; they all wanted to be released from the wrath of the weather.

“Guys!” one of the stage workers called out. A deep frown marred his features – he was impatient. “You’re on – _now_!” he declared, and the five men exchanged long looks.

“Let’s go,” Brian – _Manson_ – ordered.

As they walked towards the stage, they heard the audience chanting, “Manson, Manson…”, until the words transformed into cheering and screaming. The lights were faint and blue, and the smoke machines turned the stage into an unearthly landscape. Ginger began drumming lightly in a steady beat, and Jeordie watched in silent awe as the vocalist was brought onto the stage in a carriage pulled by two naked women with horse heads. He wore a huge headpiece that emphasized his regal posture as he waved his hand and held his head high. The audience screamed louder and louder, and then the music was released – thunderous and rapid – and Manson bellowed like a demon from hell.

The concert went splendidly. After half an hour on stage, they played ‘Crucifixion in Space’, one of Brian’s favorites. He locked eyes with Jeordie, searching for something, and Jeordie smiled. Brian moved toward the bassist, or rather he jumped over to where he was stood with his usual brutal, nearly violent energy, fully in touch with his stage persona. Jeordie moaned as he felt the singer cupping his privates in his hand, squeezing. He felt himself blushing, and for a moment there, he was not Twiggy anymore, he was Jeordie.

Brian’s face was only inches away from his. Their lips crashed together in a crude collision, and the singer got a little bit of tongue before he resumed to the lyrics. Jeordie’s glassy eyes were still fully focused on Brian though, and Brian was fully focused on him. And then, in the middle of the song, Brian’s whole body jerked violently as though invisible hands had rattled him like a marionette. His eyes were still glued to Jeordie’s as he fell into a heap of limbs on the floor of the stage. Every sound – every scream of the audience and each crackle of radio static in his earpiece – became merged together in a constant beeping noise. Jeordie screamed, but he could not hear his own voice, not even inside his head. Steered by the echo of some ancient instinct, Jeordie fell to his knees next to Brian. Blood was oozing out from a small hole in his back, and within seconds, he was lying in a pool of his own blood. 

“Brian!” he screamed at the top of his voice, and the slow motion stopped – all sounds came crashing back – and their world had been transformed into a dystopian scene. He pressed his hands against the wound, hoping to stop some of the bleeding, but it felt useless. The warm, sticky feeling of life seeping out of him made Jeordie go pale as a sheet. He realized that his best friend was dying. His vision became covered by a haze – the screams and noises of the audience blended together once again – and Jeordie pressed his hands to the wound and prayed to a God he did not believe in for a miracle that could not come into existence.

Brian moved his lips, but Jeordie could not comprehend what was being said. The ringing in his ears became all-consuming to the point he could not even hear himself thinking. Even so, he could see himself from above, hands pressed against the bleeding wound, and he heard himself shouting.

“Brian! Brian! No-no-no-”

Someone stepped in and took a hold of his arm, forcibly dragging him to his feet. “Step aside! Move!” he barked, and Jeordie pitched forward, his head swimming, his vision blurring.

Pogo ran to him, supporting his weight and staring into his eyes. The bassist stumbled, once again falling to the floor, unable to keep his balance. The baldheaded man gritted his teeth as he flung an arm around his friend’s back, hoisted him up for a second time and half carried, half dragged him away from the scene. As they stumbled off the stage, Jeordie glanced back and gasped at the surreal sight. Security workers and medical workers were swarming the frontman like mosquitoes, and people were screaming their heads off in the background, most likely thinking that their idol had been shot dead.

Jeordie felt little jolts of shock and pain coursing through his body; his stomach rolled and he vomited. Pogo sped up, desperate to get away, and he hauled the smaller man to the safety of the backstage area. There, away from the eye of the storm, the keyboardist’s legs caved in under him and both men tumbled to the ground. Panicked workers rushed toward them and handed them water and blankets. A few of them gathered around Jeordie, and he could not understand why. They pulled at his clothes and attempted to speak to him, but he remained silent. His eyes were downcast, and his body shook with fright and terror. 

“He’s most likely in shock,” a medical worker pointed out to the three others. “You, go with him to the hospital in the second ambulance.” Upon saying this, he nodded at Pogo and pointed at the exit sign. “You have to leave this instant, sir.”  

“Ambulance?” The keyboardist frowned. “Why-”

“That’s where Mr. Manson’s going,” the man said abruptly, cutting him short. “Better hurry up.”

 

* * *

 

Jeordie sat in the waiting room at the hospital. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes were drawn to the clock up on the wall. As he watched the second hand, willing it to move faster, he inhaled the stale hospital air deeply and looked away. Two hours had gone by since the shooting. Upon their arrival, Jeordie had been given sedatives. Within a couple of minutes, he had calmed down considerably, and they had both been ushered to the waiting room. Both of them were painfully aware of the fact that their friend was on an operating table. That doctors cut his flesh and stitched him back together. That he might not wake up afterwards.

The bassist glanced sidelong at Pogo, who reclined in his chair and did his best to relax, and briefly wondered what thoughts went through his head. While his eyes were closed, he saw some movement behind the eyelids, indicating that the sandman had forgotten him.

“Did he…” Jeordie said and then coughed, clearing his throat. “Did he fire more shots?”

Pogo’s eyes fluttered open. They looked bloodshot. There were dark, heavy bags under them. A mixture of anger, worry, and sadness clouded his features, and he said, “I don’t really know, Twigs. Didn’t really understand until I saw him collapse.” Again, he closed his eyes. “And you screamed for him – and then the… the red stuff – I just knew I had to get you off that stage.” His voice quivered, revealing raw and unprocessed emotion. As he locked eyes with the brunet, his bitterness was palpable; it was everything. “This shouldn’t have fucking happened, Twigs. I made those jokes-”

“Don’t do that. It won’t help.”

Pogo nodded in agreement, though he whispered, “You foresaw this. N-none of us took you seriously.”

Jeordie, whose cheeks had become red and swollen from all the crying, felt his skin burn. Fresh, salty tears were streaming down his cheeks, burning his flesh, and he let out a strangled sob. Pogo put his hand on his shoulder, desperate to comfort him in all their misery.

“I –  I should’ve taken you seriously,” the keyboardist whispered. “I should have taken you fucking seriously. I’m – I’m so fucking sorry, Twigs. So fucking sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Pogo,” the brunet said in between sobs. “Not yours, not mine… not…” He could not finish the sentence. The words felt foreign. He blamed himself tremendously, but he did not want Pogo to feel responsible for Brian’s death – if death were to take its toll – and the mere thought caused him to gasp for air, clutching as his chest.

In that moment, a nurse walked over to them and said, “Excuse me-” 

“Do you have any updates?” Jeordie blurted out, and his voice dissolved pitifully at the end of the sentence. The woman, undoubtedly in her early twenties, stood there with a dumbfounded look on her face. She looked them both up and down, concerned and frightened by their strange clothes, and Pogo, annoyed by her lack of professionalism, barked, “Well, lady – any updates?” 

“… No, I’m sorry,” she said as soon as she had gotten a grip on herself. “A woman – _Barbara_ – wants to speak with George on the phone.” 

“Where’s the phone?” Jeordie asked solemnly.

She pointed to the left and said, “By the desk.” 

Jeordie swiftly walked over to the desk and picked up the receiver. He pressed it to his ear without hesitation, though his heart was beating rapidly – painfully – for he had few words of consolation to give her. Brian was her only child – her whole world – and Jeordie could not reassure her that he would live to tell the tale. For that, he felt guilty.

“Barb, it’s…” He hiccupped, inwardly cursing himself for his emotional frailty. “It’s me – it’s Jeordie. You wanted to speak with me-” 

“They say they don’t know,” she whimpered. “T-they don’t- they don’t know!”

Jeordie took in a sharp breath. “It hit his spine. They’re trying-”

“I know, I know… I know,” she whispered frantically before forcing herself to calm down enough to speak. “We couldn’t get a flight tonight… we… we’re leaving first thing in the m-morning. In the meantime, I’ve told them that they must share all- all information with you, Jeordie.” 

Jeordie had to lean against the desk for support. “I… I understand.”

“Stay strong, honey,” Barbara told him. The conversation ended there. Jeordie felt a lump in his throat, blaming himself for not having done more when more could have been done. Now it could be too late. As he walked back toward Pogo, a different nurse stopped him.

“You’re Mr. Osbourne White?” she asked, and he swallowed thickly and nodded in response, too weak to say anything without falling apart completely. It suddenly dawned on him that she could be the carrier of bad news; of fatale news. The tears ran rapidly down his already tear-stained face, and as he dried them away, the woman looked thoroughly rattled.

The nurse touched his forearm caringly and said, “Mr. Warner’s condition is critical, but he is stable – for now.” She let go of his arm and watched as relief washed over him, resembling a raging fire being put out by a bucket of ice water. “They have saved his vital organs, most importantly his liver – which was damaged.” She paused, still somewhat taken aback by him. “We do not know the full extent of his injuries yet, but it is likely that he will survive.”

Jeordie looked puzzled; his eyes were wide and his mouth twitched. “He’ll live?”

“Yes, most likely. We can never be one hundred percent sure, but at this point I would say that it is very likely.”

“When can I… when can I see him?”

The nurse hesitated; she appeared to be staring at his dress. “Possibly tomorrow, but for now, he needs lots and lots of rest.” She paused and nearly tripped with impatience. “I’m sure the surgeon will speak more once he has washed and changed, Mr. White.”

She smiled nervously and walked away. Jeordie remembered that he was still wearing his makeup and costume, and as he looked down, he saw that huge, brown stains covered most of his beige dress. The sticky, smelly leftovers of his throw-up caked his chest. No sooner had he realized this than he leaned over a garbage can and vomited anew. The tears fell endlessly from his eyes, and the sobs wracked his body like earthquakes. He then felt Pogo’s hand on his back, warm and weighty. 

“Didn’t you hear her? He’ll be fine.”

“’Most likely’,” Jeordie repeated once the sobs had been reduced to sniffles. “And – and I won’t get to see him until t-tomorrow.”

Pogo patted him gently on the shoulder and said, “He needs time to rest and to heal.”

“I-I just – I need to see him!” 

Jeordie gasped for air as the teeth of despair sank deeper and deeper into his already battered mind. “W-where should we go n-now?” he asked as he wept. Pogo pulled him in for a hug, allowing for the smaller man to cling onto him. For once, he could not turn tragedy into comedy. For once, he had to be the adult; the comforter. 

“Hey, calm down, Twigs. He’ll be alright, okay?” he said and stroked Jeordie’s back. “We go back to the hotel and come back first thing in the morning – I _promise_. You’re useless to him in your current state anyway.” He paused and pulled back, and as they stared into one another’s eyes, Jeordie whimpered. 

“I-I…”

The baldheaded man said, “Sleep will make things a little brighter tomorrow when you wake up. Okay?” 

Pogo, normally the one with all the snarky comments, made more sense than anyone else. He made more sense than he had done in all their years of friendship. Under normal circumstances, Jeordie would have paid him no heed, but these were all but normal circumstances. He chose to take his advice, and as soon as they had gathered their few belongings – their earpieces and platform boots – they walked out of the hospital. Pogo still held the smaller man by the arm, afraid that he would fall.

A little while later, a taxi took them back to the hotel. Pogo seemed reluctant about letting Jeordie stay in the room he had initially shared with Brian, but he dared not say a word about it. If Jeordie felt uncomfortable, he could always knock on their door.

Jeordie dragged himself to the bathroom and stripped naked in front of the mirror. There were large, red blotches on his chest and abdomen. The sight made him dizzy and nauseous, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the sides of the sink.

Once the dizziness passed, he stepped inside the shower and let warm water run through his hair and down his body. He scrubbed his abdomen with a cloth and kept his eyes shut, afraid of what he might see; however, as soon as he felt clean, he gazed down at his feet and saw that the water had taken a brownish color. The drain was clogged. As he reached down and pulled out the lump of tangled hair, he found that blobs of coagulated blood stuck to the black strands. Retching, he let go of the mushy lump and washed his bloody fingers with too much soap and too hot water, nearly scorching them.

Fifteen minutes later, he lay down on the narrow bed and immediately thought about Brian’s complaints from the day before. His eyes wandered to the empty bed on the other side of the room, and he shuddered and thought about how alone Brian was – how utterly abandoned he was – and Jeordie was not there for him. The thought brought fresh tears to his eyes, but he fought them, too tired to cry.

“… Mazz,” he whispered hoarsely and sat up straight. For a moment, he simply watched the bright cityscape – the liveliness of New York – and he wondered how they could leave their lights on. He marveled at how their lives had not come to a halt, because surely they all knew about the shooting. How could they be so ignorant? Brian was all alone, more dead than alive, and no one grieved. The city still smiled.

Jeordie, angered by his own thoughts, got out of bed and drew the curtains. Afterwards, he stumbled over to Brian’s bed and, in a crumpled heap on the floor, he spotted the black T-shirt the singer normally slept in. He curled his fingers around the soft fabric and held it to his face, catching a whiff of musky cologne and then something else. It was the smell that sometimes clung to Brian’s hair; the smell that lingered on his spent clothes. He frowned and asked himself how he knew these things, and then he reminded himself not to overthink it. Instead, he pulled the oversized T-shirt over his head and slipped under the covers of Brian’s bed. There, bathed in his scent, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think about Pogo's reaction? I always love it when seemingly dorky/stupid/mean characters let their brilliance shine through, but only when absolutely necessary - of course.


	4. We Destroy All of It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter four. Enjoy! 
> 
> And thank you for all the lovely comments :) they are always appreciated.

Brian was in a deep coma. His complexion was deathly pale and purplish half-moons hung under his eyes. He also had slight stubble on his chin, which was something Jeordie had not seen in years, and his breathing was shallow, as if each breath might be his last. All of it were evidence of the trauma his body had suffered through; however, the most telling piece of evidence were the machines that beeped and buzzed throughout the otherwise quiet hospital room. 

Pogo had kept his promise. After a brief breakfast, he had accompanied Jeordie to the hospital, though he had refused to see their wounded friend. Upon being asked, a wild look had crept into his eyes, and he had shaken his head and muttered an explanation – something about the other guys – and Jeordie had realized that he was just as brokenhearted as he himself was.

Jeordie sat by Brian’s bedside and read a magazine. He had to concentrate hard to get his mind to focus, and while he read the words to himself, he could not fully grasp their meaning. The letters were dancing before his eyes, teasing and mocking him, and he squinted his eyes and forced himself to continue. If he stopped, he would have to look at his friend’s deathlike face. He would have to think about the future.

He continued to read for an hour, but eventually the sound of the machines became too distracting. He sighed and put the magazine down on the nightstand. His eyes then automatically fell on Brian, and as he took in the sight of him – of his chest rising and falling – he felt his lower lip trembling. His eyes, still red and sore from yesterday, filled with tears. His face was set in anguish, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pressed together. The anguish quickly transformed into anger. As he got up from the uncomfortable chair, a wave of color flushed his cheeks.

“We told you!” he hissed, glaring daggers at the unconscious man. “But you – you’re so stubborn – you couldn’t even spend a little more on security, fucking cheapskate.” He gazed sideways and bit down on his lip until he could taste blood.

“Fucking hell, Brian,” he said, and his voice was raw and cracked. Defeated. “… Why?”

The question lingered in the air, weighing the bassist down. He slid dejectedly into his seat, slumping a little and leaning his head against the wall. Closing his eyes, he realized that he hurt everywhere. His nipples hurt, his feet hurt, his wrist hurt, the ring on his finger hurt. His brain hurt. But his heart was the worst. 

When he opened his eyes, the room looked the same. The machines let out the same bothersome noises.

“Brian…” he whispered softly and cradled the larger, colder hand in his own. Rather than look at the haggard face, he inspected the intricate artworks that covered the length of his arms; the eyes on the inner elbows and the quirky cartoon-inspired tree and devil. As curiosity got the better of him, he stroked the tender flesh. It hit him that the tattoos were there for a reason. The collection of white, thin scars was invisible to the naked eye. Jeordie studied them with his fingers, tracing each scar and remembering what had put them there. Knives, razors, nails, and glass – and a significant amount of self-hatred – had punctured the skin.

He withdrew his hand and asked himself whether a new tattoo would make it to where the bullet had entered his body. Time would decide for them.

Jeordie groaned angrily and buried his face in his hands. “Why do you have to be so impossible?”

No answers could be given. As he continued to look at his best friend, he thought about the unfairness of the situation. Several journalists and news channels had long since established that the young murderers had not been fans of Marilyn Manson. In spite of this, some undoubtedly Christian bastard had decided to go ahead and pull the trigger himself. From what Jeordie had heard, the gunman had nearly been lynched by the livid audience. The police had saved him from their wrath. 

“Wake up, please – I can’t- I-” He begged in a breathy explosion of words. He knew it was useless to beg for this seeing as Brian was in a medically induced coma. The doctors had informed him that if he were to wake up, he would be in a tremendous amount of pain. The bullet had hit his spine and organs, and the surgery had been a difficult ordeal. In short, his body needed time to heal.

Jeordie, still unable to tear his eyes away from his best friend, noticed that the nurses had not cleaned his face properly. Black and white makeup still clung to his skin here and there, and Jeordie, annoyed by their sloppiness, walked over to the sink and found some paper. He wetted it and, upon standing by Brian’s bedside, took a deep breath. With as much tenderness as he could muster, he dabbed at the corner of Brian’s eyes, gently washing away the eyeliner. He took a new napkin and pressed it against his mouth, removing the smudged, red lipstick.  

“There,” Jeordie said and put his hand on top of the singer’s again. “Much better. You’d yell at me, wouldn’t you?” He smiled sadly. Brian would have been enraged. Apart from bringing him food or alcohol, he never let anyone do anything for him. Barbara was the only exception to the rule.

There was a knock on the door. A woman with blonde hair and glasses stepped into the room, followed by a man with brown hair and a beer belly. Jeordie greeted them by hugging them both.

The woman – Barbara – took a few cautious steps toward the bed. “Oh, my baby boy,” she cried as she placed a tender kiss on her son’s forehead. Sorrow clouded her features, and her cheeks and eyelids were swollen and red from all the tears. She looked ten years older than her actual age, and Hugh did not look much better.  

“I-I’m really, really sorry,” Jeordie whispered hoarsely. 

“It isn’t your fault he’s so pigheaded,” Hugh barked, but his grief shone through the though act. His eyes were glassy and his lips twitched involuntarily as he put his right arm around his wife.

“I could’ve done so much more though,” Jeordie whispered, feeling the salty drops trickle down his face once more. “I could’ve gone behind his back – could’ve gone to all lengths… But I… I always do what he tells me to do.”

“No more of this nonsense, Jeordie,” the older man said, voice firm and tender at the same moment. “He’ll live, even if he’s…” he faltered, “even if he’s paralyzed.” 

“We don’t know that yet!” Barbara nearly shouted. “Keep silent, the two of you. I will hear no more until he wakes up and we know for certain whether he’ll walk again or not.”

As she said this, she consoled the brokenhearted long-haired man by stroking his shoulder. Her expression was that of eternal sadness, because she knew as well as the two men that it is unlikely, if not impossible, that Brian would ever walk again.

A knock on the door stole their attention. A nurse entered and said that the police wanted to speak to Jeordie on the phone. He went to the reception desk and spoke to an investigator, who informed him that they wished to hear his testimony.

 

* * *

 

Jeordie’s nails were bitten down to the quick, but he still could not keep himself from nibbling at them. A deep frown was attached to his face, and his eyes were glued to the large clock on the otherwise naked wall. The interrogation room was oddly white in spite of the lacking windows and sunlight. It felt cold.

The door to the room opened slowly, stealing the dark-haired man’s attention. A man in his late forties, clad in a grey suit and with stern, blue eyes, stepped into the room. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he mumbled before taking his seat on the opposite side of the desk.

“It’s fine,” Jeordie whispered hoarsely, his eyes downcast.

The man looked through some papers before cleaning his throat. “Please, Mr. White,” he begun, causing the younger man to flinch. Gazing up from his lap, he felt as though the middle-aged man saw through him with his piercing blue eyes. “Would you once again tell me what you experienced that evening? I need all the details.” He paused to look up from the papers, establishing eye contact. “Even the things you discard as insignificant.” 

“I… I’m sure the guys can tell you more…” Jeordie said, his discomfort written all over his face. “They probably already have? I kind of don’t remember much, really.” He paused and bit his lower lip, thinking back and remembering the traumatic event. As the images started flashing before his mind’s eye, he let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. “I don’t remember hearing the… the gunshot. B-but… he stood right in front of me… when it- it happened, you know? Yes, I gave you my dress, didn’t I? The blood…” 

Jeordie felt odd talking about it outside of his head. His thoughts were even messier than he had feared, and his memory diffuse. Bloodstained pictures popped up every now and then, but none of them were clear.

“Were you in shock?” the older man asked. Jeordie felt his mouth go dry at the question – he had answered it several times already – and he crossed his arms protectively over his chest.  

“Yeah, I was. Kind of still am. They had to – at the hospital, I mean – had to give me pills to calm down because I was…” He frowned and looked down at his hands. “Wasn’t myself, really.” 

The investigator nodded solemnly. “Are there any details you feel are important to mention? Anything at all?” 

Jeordie shook his head. “N-no, not that I… not that I can think of right now, really. I’m really not…” he faltered as he tried to speak. He had to clear his throat before he continued, “I don’t remember all of it. He fell. I saw blood pouring out from the… the bullet hole.”

The man looked at him with an expression that was as skeptical as it was grave. Something in his eyes gleamed dangerously, and he clicked his tongue before he asked the question he must have been waiting to ask. “What happened in the moments before he fell?” 

Jeordie felt his mouth go dry, as though he had swallowed dirt. “He, um…” he faltered again. His cheeks went red and his eyes went watery all at once, resulting in a peculiar facial expression that sparked the interest of the investigator. He had found _something_.  

“He what?”

Jeordie swallowed thickly at the demanding tone of voice, realizing that his behavior must have raised a couple of red flags. The older man’s eyes were intense, trying their best to pick him apart, and Jeordie briefly wondered what he looked like to the investigator. He knew that he was blushing and tearing up, but what did the man gather from that? Explaining it all would be dreary – not to mention embarrassing and completely uncalled for – and no one would benefit from it, least of all Brian. Anger suddenly welled up inside of his heart, but he chose not to let it shine through. He needed to be in control of his emotions.

“It isn’t like… it isn’t important.” He bit his lip, averting his gaze. “It’s got nothing to do with anything.”

“Please tell me anyways, Mr. White,” the investigator prompted. “I’m not here to pass any judgement, I merely wish to know what might have triggered this event.”

Jeordie flinched. “Event?” he asked with a mirthless laugh. “It’s a fucking crime and nothing ‘triggered’ it. A fucking psychotic-”

“Mr. White, _please_ ,” the investigator pleaded, though his voice was evidently lacking both compassion and patience with the witness.

Jeordie started fiddling with his hair, twining a dreadlock in between his fingers. “Fine,” he breathed. “He stood in front of me, and… he felt me up a little bit, down there-”

“Be more specific, Mr. White.”

The abrupt demand threw him off a little bit, and as he looked at the older man with a wide-eyed expression on his face, he nodded encouragingly. Jeordie closed his eyes for a moment, his heart thudding painfully inside his chest, and whispered, “… He squeezed my package – my dick and balls – through the dress. And then he… he kissed me,” Jeordie paused. “He kissed me.”

“And you say your relationship to Mr. Warner is purely platonic?” 

“How is that fucking relevant?” Jeordie wanted to know, his body trembling. He did not and could not understand this man – what his intentions were. “We’re close friends – musical soulmates – and there’s nothing more to it. What happens onstage… it’s in the spur of the moment. Music is passion, it gets you high, in a way.”

The man said nothing for a moment. He rested his chin against his closed hand and regarded him with ice in his eyes. “You’re admitting to having taken drugs before the concert?”

Jeordie’s fright melted into annoyance. “… No,” he declared. “We had vodka, and some beer before that.”

Another moment of total silence followed the statement. The investigator started fumbling for some papers in the pile that rested on the desk. “Please sign here… and here,” he said as he went through a few of them. Jeordie did so in a hurry, eager to get away from the man and the police station.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. White. I hope your musical soulmate will wake up and feel better as soon as possible.”

The harsh tone and the unnecessary choice of words were not lost on Jeordie, but he nodded his head, not wishing to start an argument with the investigator. Even so, he felt like all had already been lost.

When he got back to the hotel, journalists swarmed the outside area. The hotel staff were doing their best to get him to safety – away from prying eyes and blunt questions – and he felt like an undead corpse being picked at by the crows. Questions were hurled at him like rocks. While he was used to being targeted by sensationalistic reporters and aggressive photographers, he was not in a good place. He was utterly drained. Utterly heartbroken.

John 5 and Pogo sat with him for a little while in the room he and Brian had initially shared. They had asked about the examination, but the bassist’s only response had been a resigned shrug of the shoulders. John 5 had tried to move on to less touchy subjects; however, Pogo had steered the conversation in a different direction. One could always rely on Pogo for insensitive comments.

“So he’ll lose his legs, so what?” Pogo said as he scavenged through the minibar. “We should celebrate the fact that he hasn’t joined the dead yet. He was lucky. Now, think of that unlucky dress of yours-” 

Jeordie inhaled sharply, watching his supposed friend and colleague with heavy-lidded eyes. He groaned and buried his face in his hands, too exhausted to argue with the mad clown. “Are you never not an asshole, Pogo?” 

“Why should I be anything but?” he inquired as he settled in a chair with a bottle of vodka. “Someone has to be realistic.” 

John 5 snorted. “As if. Brian has lost more than his legs – you realize that Pogo. _We_ have lost more than a pair of legs.”

Pogo snorted twice in a rather dramatic manner, obviously mocking the guitarist. “So maybe he can’t do the dirty deed, but I’m sure he has fucked enough to last him a life-”

The bassist slammed his fist on the table and shouted at the top of his voice: “Pogo! If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I will strangle you.”

The clown had some nerve. He smiled in response – or smirked – and then he whispered in a knowing voice, “Oh, right. He hasn’t been _there_ yet, has he?”

Jeordie smiled tightly. His knuckles were white.

“You’re right, Pogo. He hasn’t been _there_ yet. Does that make you happy?”

“I knew I was right all along, Twigs.” The keyboardist sighed. “And it does please me.” 

“Pogo, you should just leave,” John 5 muttered sourly.” Go fuck a hooker or something, or maybe even yourself, but leave him be. This situation is too fucked up, and I’m sure that even you understand that much.” 

The baldheaded man rolled his eyes as though he had never heard anyone say something quite as stupid before – and then he raised an eyebrow and said, “Surely the two of you must realize that if we make this into a disaster for ourselves, and for Manson, he will feel the same way and even worse.” He spoke like one would to a couple of kindergarteners, keeping his tone light and matter-of-fact. “The only way to make something less scary is to make fun of it.” 

“D’you really think that it’ll work?” Jeordie asked, his voice marred by pure exhaustion. “Do you?” 

Pogo smiled tiredly, his eyes glazing over. The sight startled the bassist, and he realized that in spite of the tasteless jokes and crude comments, there was a human heart in there. “… I wouldn’t know,” he said and sighed dramatically. “Manson’s the smart one after all.”


	5. Am I Sorry Just to Be Alive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry about the long wait! Hope you like it :)

Jeordie was nervous. He kept tapping his fingers against his thighs, watching the thin air and listening to nothing but the sound of his own heart pumping blood. All else faded away into oblivion.

“Jeordie, you should come,” Hugh said from afar. The sound of ragged breathing cut into the silence of the hallway, reminding him that Hugh had been smoking too many cigarettes in his lifetime. He wondered briefly if it was what had inspired him to quit smoking a year ago, or had it been something else? Perhaps the thought of having family and friends in the position he was currently in, waiting for his son to recover.

“Jeordie?” Hugh repeated and then coughed. “You’ve got to come see him now, boy.” 

“He’s awake?” he whispered silently yet hopefully.

“Barely, but… he wants you there. Keeps saying your name.” 

The older man looked somewhat nervous as he admitted this, as if he had understood something vital about his son and his best friend. Jeordie felt his cheeks turn red. Tears were forming in his eyes, but he fought to keep them at bay. If he were to see Brian, he needed to stay strong.

“Is he… is he paralyzed?”

Hugh looked painfully hesitant upon being asked about this. “… Ask him. Let’s go, shall we?" 

Jeordie followed Brian’s father into the hospital room. Brian was in the bed, covered in blankets and with huge pillows supporting him. His eyes were closed shut. Barbara sat in the armchair by the bed, but she let go of her son’s hand as soon as Jeordie entered the room. As she passed him in the doorway, she said, “… I’ll leave him to you for a while. He’s been asking.”

Jeordie tried to swallow the lump that had become lodged in his throat. So many words needed to be said, but as he approached the bed, he felt the words evaporating from his mind. None of it mattered anymore, he thought to himself, and then he sat down and watched his best friend’s face. He touched the singer’s jaw with trembling hands and was surprised to feel the short stubble of his facial hair against his fingertips. In all the years he had known Brian, he had never seen him with a beard. It was foreign.

“… Brian?” he asked tentatively and bit the inside of his cheek. When the singer remained unresponsive, he brushed strands of black hair away from his eyes and cupped his cheek with his other hand. His face transformed under the touch, a slight frown appearing on his face.

“Hmm… Twigs,” he breathed. 

Jeordie broke his promise. Molten tears started streaming down his face, hot and painful, and while he wanted nothing more than to wipe them away, he found that he could not move. How could he? He was touching Brian – comforting him – and never had life been more bittersweet. Watching him, alive and yet unwell, knocked the air from his lungs. How he wished that he could have taken the bullet for him.

“Brian,” he repeated quietly. “I’m right here.”

Slowly his eyes blinked open, revealing the brown eyes Jeordie had yearned to see. Gazing into their depth, he saw their years together – the first time they had met at the Coral Spring Mall – and for a moment, he could do nothing but stare. A myriad of conflicting emotions coursed through him, his mind an absolute mess. The only thing he could think was that he was truly awake, and whatever words had danced at the tip of his tongue died.

“… J-Jeordie…”

“I’m here,” the bassist said again, withdrawing his hand.

Brian swallowed thickly and whispered, “D’you… hate me?” 

Jeordie’s heart broke. He grimaced. “No, I-”

“Be… be honest with me.”

“… Yes.” He wiped away tears with the back of his hand. “Yes and no… I couldn’t hate you.”

The singer looked shadowy and frail in the bed, but his eyes were the same – hard and yet soft – and Jeordie felt the intensity of his stare. “They said I’ve… I’ve been out for several days." 

Jeordie smiled a sad little smile. “Four days, Mazz,” he reminded him. 

“… You know about… about…” Brian trailed off; the conclusion was inescapable.

“Do they know for sure now?” 

Brian closed his eyes. A strange sound escaped him, a mix between a sob and a cough, and Jeordie wished he could have cried openly. It would have given him some release. “Yeah. They- they probed me and did a few tests. They gave me a few electrical shocks, to see, but of course… I didn’t feel a fucking thing.”

Jeordie fought the tears back and whispered, “It’s not the end. You’ll move past this-”

“Are you somehow not getting this? I… I’m a nobody now, Twigs… a fucking low-life.” 

The bassist put his trembling hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Don’t say that-” 

Brian shook the hand away. His eyes clouded over with darkness and self-hatred, and Jeordie could not help but to pity him. After years and years of friendship, he realized that Brian’s biggest fear had now come into existence. He was helpless – incapacitated – and he loathed himself.

“I can’t…” he said and closed his eyes, “can’t feel anything below my fucking waist. N-nothing… fucking Nothing!”

Jeordie wanted to put his arms around the best friend he adored above all else, but he kept himself from giving in to his desire. As he gazed into the teary brown eyes, he knew he did not wish to be touched.

“It doesn’t matter, Mazz. You _are_ , remember?” he whispered, but the tears strangled his voice and he sounded all but reassuring. Brian could see right through him, through the tears that waited to fall. “I thought you… I thought I’d lose you. You’re not fucking allowed to cave in, d’you get that?” he asked, his voice quavering with every syllable. “I won’t fucking let you.”

Brian looked down at his hands. “I can’t… can’t perform again, Twigs. I’m _not_.”

“You haven’t lost your voice-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Brian raised his voice, causing Jeordie to flinch. While these outbursts were not unusual, Jeordie had not expected it. Not now. They looked at one another, and then the singer lowered his gaze. Guilt ate away at him. “I wish I hadn’t lived to see this, Twigs… I should’ve fucking died up on that stage, so everyone could’ve seen the cruelty of religion – of fucking _faith_.” He spat the last word like a venomous snake spits poison. “Then it would’ve served a fucking purpose – but this? There’s no purpose. I’m a cripple.”

“Please… Brian, please stop,” Jeordie pleaded, eyes huge and lower lip twitching. “I-I… I’ve been so depressed, so angry since…” He swallowed thickly, remembering the trauma – the blood. “Don’t be like that, please.” 

Brian stared at him, sensing his despair.

“I-I know, Twigs…” he finally whispered, and the anger took on a softer tone, sounding almost sympathetic. “I know you’ve been by my side throughout this ordeal…" 

“Where else?” the younger man whispered. “I’ve been attached to your side since the day I met you, more or less. Since I saw you for… for you.”

“I know,” Brian agreed without an ounce of doubt coloring his words. “And now… now those days are gone, Twigs.”

Jeordie shook his head. “No, don’t talk nonsense… don’t say stupid things like that. We don’t even know if this damage is permanent or not! So no, don’t talk bullshit like that.”

Brian’s face contorted at the words. “… The bullet cut through the part of my spine that lets the brain communicate with my legs. It won’t magically fix itself. Not even the most talented surgeon in the world can change this. This – this is my life now. My fucking life.” He let out an ugly, mirthless laugh that shook the younger man to the core of his being. There was so much bitterness there. 

Jeordie shook his head. He let go of Brian’s hand and walked over to the window, looking out.

“I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere, even if you give up hope…”

The singer snorted disbelievingly. “Those words won’t last, Twigs. You’ll find someone better to follow – someone who can offer you a… a life…” He closed his eyes again and put one hand over his face, not wanting Jeordie to see him as he cried. The tears were merciless. “Hope… hope is a cheap thing, isn’t it?” 

“There is no one better,” Jeordie whispered. “Don’t you get that? You’re it. You’re. It.”

Brian looked absolutely miserable as Jeordie admitted this. His inner turmoil was rapidly becoming too much for him to handle. He wanted to be dead – wished for it – and yet he dreaded the idea whenever Jeordie stood in front of him. Whenever he could see that face – so soft and loving – everything he himself was not, he knew that he could not simply give up.

“… Why are you telling me this now?” His voice, broken and empty, transformed into a sob. The sound was enough to make Jeordie’s skin crawl, unnerved. “Why… why not a month ago?”

“I…” Jeordie whimpered. His expression was somber, his brows snapped together in confusion. 

Brian dried away tears with the back of his hand. When his eyes shot up and he took in the sight of the bassist, he snorted bitterly and said, “Why?”

Jeordie’s mouth went dry again. The question echoed through his mind and reminded him of all the times he had asked himself the opposite question. Why had he waited so long? He supposed that the timing had never been quite right. Besides, what if Brian had reacted with disgust? All these childish fears had been swept away under the harsh glare of Death. Jeordie had realized that life, if nothing else, was fleeting. This awareness had perhaps made him less predictable.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything, Mazz,” he eventually said.

Brian wanted to laugh at the statement. Instead, he bit his lower lip and dried the wetness from his cheeks. 

“It would’ve changed _everything_ , Twigs. Fucking everything.”


End file.
